


Zambinella

by Custodian (custodian)



Category: Sarrasine - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/Custodian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zambinella walks in beauty.  Also, alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zambinella

**Author's Note:**

  * For [El Staplador (elstaplador)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/gifts).



The fraternity of the theatre was at once a comfort and a sorrow to Zambinella. The insularity of it was a cushion and a boon at first glance, but one had only to push back the velvet curtain a little further to see the lovely cage for what it was. Zambinella, meanwhile, was an outsider among the outsiders. Walking in beauty, yes, but also solitude.

"Alvaro!" Vitagliani shouted suddenly enough that Zambinella's hand almost faltered and spoiled the fine line of greasepaint the brush made. Somewhere, a couple of the men began to laugh.

"Zambinella! Look! Your paramour!"

Alvaro leaped out from behind a costume rack. He was clad in some awful velvet cape and an ostentatious gold and silver outfit. Tied to his hip was a sword. He swooned and opened his arms to the sides as if to beg for an embrace. "Oh! My Zambinella! Lovely, beautiful dove! Fear not, for I have come to carry you away to France!"

The room erupted in whoops and cat-calls as the other actors either burst into laughter joined him in making wild pronouncements of love. Zambinella sat perfectly still and took in the scene, waiting for the moment when the room quieted enough for a single voice to carry. When it did, Zambinella summoned up a queenly smile and regarded Alvaro through half-closed lids.

"Alvaro, my dear, your French accent is abysmal."

That set off a new set of catcalls. Savino grappled with Alvaro and they swatted at one another, play-fighting like teenagers. Zambinella turned back to the mirror.

Oh, what tragedies arose from ignorance. Poor, deluded Sarrasine. They'd used his lovesick foolishness for their sport, and it had been the worse for him. Word spread quickly of his embarrassment in front of Cardinal Cicognara. Rome, meanwhile, tutted knowingly about the French and trod onward.

Vitagliani paused next to Zambinella's mirror. "It should not have gone so far," he said simply and reached down to pin back a strand of Zambinella's wig.

"You couldn't have known."

Vitagliani stood there for a moment longer, then left Zambinella to put the final touches on his makeup.

# # #

 

That night, Zambinella watched the lights of Rome glitter. Even the dark ribbon of the Tiber, where he could see it through the buildings, sparkled a little. It was difficult to say whether the beauty that surrounded him cheered him or simply accentuated his sorrow.

With the exception of his dress that night that Sarrasine had been summoned -- curse Vitagliani's awful joke -- Zambinella had tried in the moment to be entirely honest. The long and slender limbs, queer comportment, and soft curves of his body that set him apart from the men of the theatre and had struck Sarrasine as evidence of Zambinella's womanhood were no less true qualities despite Sarrasine's fatal error. Prince Chigi's charity had allowed him to grow up a musico in the Cardinal's care, and that was preferable to tilling the earth until they had to bury him in it).

He'd been too young to worry over the price of it all, and Zambinella was often grateful upon hearing the frustrations of the men who sang and acted by his side that he wasn't a creature of desire at all. This and more he had tried and failed to confess in the phaeton on the way to Frascati. To Sarrasine he'd spilled the dearest hope of his heart: that he should not be alone.

Softly, he sang into the night air.

What fools,  
What fools,  
What fools must men be.  
What fools,  
What fools,  
What tragic fools are we.

Zambinella turned away from the window and began to rise from his seat, but stopped when another voice -- clear but untrained -- rose on the mist to meet him.

All men may be of foolish bent,  
But more the pity still   
To give them up in discontent,  
Or rage, or sorrow, and lament,   
For even foolish kindness can hearts fill.

Zambinella slammed the shutter closed, but not before catching sight of a young workman standing on the road below.

# # #

Cardinal Cicognara was a better guardian than most. He kept a keen enough eye to ensure that Prince Chigi's attentions were kept pure, and while the limitations on Zambinella's movements chafed occasionally, the Cardinal's good intentions were clear enough. He was a stern father, and demanding, but kind too when the moment warranted it.

Today was not among those moments.

The aria was flawless, Zambinella knew. Dressed formally as a man, he could breathe even more deeply than he could in his woman's dress at the opera. No note had wavered or gone on too long. And yet, while the guests applauded and smiled, his master sat, intent and frowning except when his visitors compelled him to engage in conversation.

When finally the Cardinal's rooms had emptied, Zambinella dared to bow his head slightly and ask, "Eminence, has my song fallen short?"

"All things fall short before the glory of God," the Cardinal answered. "The sins of man separate us from that glory."

"Just so."

The Cardinal's robes rustled as he rose from his seat and regarded Zambinella with sour curiosity. "How long since you last confessed?"

"Seven days, Eminence."

"So time enough to sin." The was cold emphasis on that final word made Zambinella shudder.

"I swear, whatever you've heard is false."

The Cardinal's eyebrows raised. "You deny a night's revel and a drive to my villa?"

"No, Eminence."

With his hand the Cardinal cupped Zambinella's smooth cheek.   
"Do you understand the disappointment I feel when you disrespect the years I have spent instructing and cultivating you by placing yourself in a position to sin?"

"Yes, Eminence. I'm sorry."

Cicognara patted Zambinella's head and then waved him away. "Be blameless, Zambinella. Go and confess and be more circumspect in the future. Remember that the opera house is not the world. Be wise to the treachery of men, and how easily they are led into it."

Zambinella bowed low and hurried out to where his carriage waited. As he rode, he reflected on Cardinal Cicognara's words. Sarrasine's foolishness had doomed him, but not without Vitagliani's interference and Zambinella's own deceit. No lie had passed his lips, but hadn't he lied with his body? Hadn't Vitagliani's liquor peeled away the layers of Sarrasine's credulity until the illusion had become reality?

"Truly I am a damned thing," he murmured and watched the buildings pass.

# # #

A snap like ice cracking awoke Zambinella in the dead of night. He startled and sat upright and clutched his blanket near to his chest and listened. A moment later, there was another tap and snap of tiny pebbles against the glass panes of the window which looked down from Zambinella's seat. Curious, he pulled the blanket around himself and shuffled over to look down at the street.

The workman stood in a heavy brown jacket. His hat was in his hands. Zambinella scowled and pushed the window open.

"Your singing is monstrous and now you presume to wake me in the night. Go away before I send for someone to take you away."

The workman held his hat in his hands. "I'm sorry. It was the only way I knew to speak to you."

"And why on earth would you like to do that?"

"Because I liked your song."

"I'm Zambinella. There's not a man in all of Rome who does not like my song."

"Oh." The man looked abashed. "I've come from Tivoli just a week ago."

Zambinella paused, and then knelt lightly in the window seat. "You are a workman?"

He nodded. "I'm a laborer come to work on the basilica. My father is a stonemason. I'm not sure what it's called, to be honest. I just haul stone. One day, though, it will be beautiful."

When the young man didn't continue by making some ridiculous declaration or romantic gesture, Zambinella smiled down at him. "What is your name?"

"Beppe."

"Well, Beppe, I hope one day to see your finished basilica. Tonight, however, I'm afraid I must sleep. Perhaps if you come back tomorrow night somewhat earlier we can discuss music."

Clearly delighted, Beppe bowed. "Of course, Signore. Thank you, Signore!"

Zambinella closed the window and for the first time in a week slept in peace.


End file.
